


Sun

by mintboy



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Bullying, Eventual Romance, Facial Differences, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Humanstuck, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, POV Alternating, POV First Person, Past Abuse, internalized ableism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-02-03 11:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12747615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mintboy/pseuds/mintboy
Summary: I’ll never be able to do what other teenagers get to do. When the world robs your health from you, robs your face from you, they rob from you everything else you’ve ever wanted. Because people are fucked up. And all they see is what’s on the outside.Inspired by the book Wonder by R. J. Palacio.





	1. Karkat: A Normal Teenager

“It is not our differences that divide us. It is our inability to recognize, accept, and celebrate those differences.”

-  Audre Lorde,  _Our Dead Behind Us: Poems_

_-_

I’m just a normal teenager. I do normal teenage things – I blast music in my bedroom, I use my phone in class, I do exactly the opposite of what my self-righteous older brother tells me. I definitely _feel_ normal. Inside, I’m no different from any other kid my age. But, I can’t walk down the street, or the school halls, for that matter, without being stared down by everyone I pass. “Normal” kids – they don’t get these stares. They’re so dumb, too . . . people do this stupid look-away thing, where they look at me but refuse to make eye contact, noticing me, making a face of surprise, and then refusing to look at me again.

This has been going on since I was little. Since I started going to school, it got even worse – I was homeschooled until fifth grade, not because I was self-conscious – not that I’m not – but, I was too sick, too weak to go. I’ve had twenty-eight surgeries since I was born, and there was no way I could make it to school. But, many of them were when I was very young, and after I recovered just before fifth grade – well, it was time to go. And it was good timing, too, because my mom died a few years after that. I couldn’t imagine starting to go to school after she was gone.

Even my own brother doesn’t see me as normal. I can tell because of how he treats me, how he treats the people around me. He lectures people who don’t treat me the way he likes – if someone makes a funny noise after looking at me, or some shit like that, he’s on top of them in an instant, telling them about how potentially “offensive” they’re being. And sure, I don’t like stuff like that either, but I’m not the kind of person to call them out like he does, I guess.

Friends? I don’t really have those. Not in person, anyway. They were all fake. The school administration practically bribed them to be my “friends” – they’d make fun of me behind my back, call me horrible things, talk about how they felt obligated to hang out with me because I was so fucked up. Oh, and they’d never look me in the eye – no one does. You have no idea how infuriating that is – people refusing to look you in the eyes. Like you’re broken. Like they don’t want to see your face.

I had one friend, when I was little, but she moved away. She’s blind, and I think that may’ve been why she stuck around. Her name is Terezi. She calls me sometimes. We used to play pretend together, with her stuffed dragons. I liked making up romance stories – she was more into adventure. But we still had a good time. Those are times I miss, even if we wouldn’t play pretend anymore.

I don’t bother with labels. There’s a lot of things that doctors use to describe my face, and I don’t care about any of them. Because they don’t matter to anyone – except maybe my brother, who has some kind of obsession of using the technical terms for things so what we say is less offensive. But the kids at school, they don’t care about the fancy long words assigned to me. Deformed. Fucked up. That’s all they care to see. The outside. Because the truth is that everyone judges a book by its cover. A boy by his face. People can’t seem to get by differences like mine.

And so, as normal as I can pretend to feel . . . I’ll never be able to do what other teenagers get to do. When the world robs your health from you, robs your face from you, they rob from you everything else you’ve ever wanted. Because people are fucked up. And all they see is what’s on the outside.

So, today, the first day of ninth grade, is going to be a fucking blast. If middle school was hell, I can’t imagine what this is going to be like. If high school is anything like the movies, anyway. I’m big into movies. Though I doubt my high school experience is going to be anything like _10 Things I Hate About You_ , _Grease_ , or _Sixteen Candles_. I think it’s going to be more like, ‘jeez, you’re a fuck up, why don’t you have the worst possible four years of your life, sincerely, whatever deity fucked me over’.

The hallways are bigger than in the middle school, that’s the first thing I notice. The tile floor is an ugly mint green color, with little white specks in it. I look up, and I have to shake my head a little. I keep my hair shaggy, so it falls in front of my eyes. The hallways are starting to fill up. I ignore the people around me. They do that look-away thing and I grate my teeth. I make a beeline for my homeroom. I don’t want to deal with anyone’s shit right now.

“Hey, Karkat!”

I freeze, bristling. I turn around. John is standing there, smiling at me, and I grimace. I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t have any friends. He smiles at me with such a fake smile. Like he’s just trying to be nice to me because he has to be. When it comes down to it, he hasn’t done anything for me. When he talks to me, his eyes dart across the hallway. He’s trying not to stare, but refuses to look me in the eyes.

“What do you want, Egbert?” I practically hiss, when I realize he isn’t the only one standing there. There’s another kid standing next to him, someone I’ve never seen before. He’s tall, thin – Egbert is thin too, but in a different way; John just looks like he hasn’t hit puberty yet, but this guy is lanky; he looks like he was stretched out by a taffy puller. He’s blonde, too, a very light blonde, and for some ungodly reason, he’s wearing sunglasses inside. Even though I can’t see through the lenses, the way he’s looking at me feels different. He hasn’t moved at all. He’s not smiling awkwardly. He’s just looking in my direction. When I look at him, he tilts his head a little in greeting, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards.

But, I imagine he’s looking away underneath those sunglasses. It’s just a façade. He’s just like the others.

“I was just wondering how your summer was, oh and –“ he notices me looking at his friend, “this is Dave! He just moved here.”

“’Sup,” Dave says, giving that little nod again.

“. . . Hey,” I say, albeit awkwardly. A few seconds pass, and it feels like hours, before I look down, my hair falling down in front of my eyes. God, I fucking hate this. It feels so _fake_. I wish John would just leave me alone. His friend is never going to talk to me again, so why bother with introductions?

“Well, uh, I have to show Dave around, so . . . I’ll see you later!”

Yeah right. The two of them walk away, leaving me in silence. I find myself staring at their backs for a moment, before I turn and start walking towards my homeroom again. My eyes follow the cracks on the floor. I only look up to see the room numbers, and my eyes catch on my homeroom, which is still mostly empty. I head towards the back, dropping my backpack next to the desk and sinking down into it, my head falling into my hands.

The room slowly fills, but the seats on either side of me remain empty. I wouldn’t expect anything different. Same shitheads, different building. The homeroom teacher starts talking, and I tune out her voice. I glance out the window. My mind wanders. I dream of a handsome boy named Karkat falling in love in high school. A boy that’s not just normal on the inside.

He’s not real. This sits like an anvil on my heart, because he’ll never be.


	2. Karkat: Lunch

“We're not words, Henry, we're people.  
Words are how others define us, but we can define ourselves any way we choose.”   
― Shaun David Hutchinson,  _We Are the Ants_

_-_

As if most other things aren’t, lunch is agonizing – or at least, I imagined it would be. And I am not let down. As I walk into the cafeteria, the stares burn holes in my body. I look down as I walk, trying to make my hair shield my face from what feels like thousands of eyes just _watching_. There’s an empty table in the back of the room. I keep my gaze trained on it, shuffling over as quickly as I can. I throw my bag onto the table, sitting down. It feels better to be sitting down out of the way – when I was standing, it felt like I was the center of attention. Not that I don’t always feel like there’s a spotlight on me.

I’m just sitting there, enjoying my lunch _alone_ , when suddenly there’s a clicking sound and I hear weight shifting. The balance on the bench I’m sitting at changes. I look up, only to meet the face of the kid I’d just met earlier. Dave? Yeah, it was Dave. The guy who wears sunglasses inside.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I ask, putting down my sandwich and crossing my arms.

“Sitting,” he replies. There’s a Southern kind of drawl in his voice that I didn’t notice before.

“Oh, I didn’t notice,” I snap at him. He doesn’t react. “Why are you sitting _here_?”

“I’m just a guy sitting with his new friend,” he raises an eyebrow. I feel anger pulse through my veins. Friends? This jackass thinks we’re _friends_?

“We aren’t friends,” my voice is as cold as I can make it, “I know you’re just doing this because you feel bad for me. And quite frankly, that’s fucking disgusting. Go. Away.”

My face is heating up. I won’t cry in front of him, though; I refuse. I’m so done. I thought people were done pretending to like me like this in elementary school. Sure, people like Egbert gave half-hearted attempts at interaction because they felt bad, but even he wasn’t cruel enough to do it like this. A quick, failed conversation in the hallway is different than showing how much you pity me by sitting with me in front of the whole school. Avoiding me feels better . . . at least then you’re showing how you really feel, as much as it hurts.

“I’m –“ he starts, but I don’t let him talk.

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing? You have the audacity to come sit next to me and play the fucking hero, huh? Oh, here I am, Dave, the knight in shining armor, here to show how much I can do for society by sitting next to the kid with the fucked-up face. How _noble_ ,” I snarl.

“Listen, dude, it’s not like that,” he raises his hands in defense. His fingers are long and thin, like the rest of him. They’re knobby and calloused.

“Then what’s it like? You don’t know me.”

“A kid can’t move to a new town and try and make some new friends?” his voice is calm. It makes me even angrier.

“Not with me. Go sit with Egbert or something. Stop bothering me,” there is an edge to my voice that is begging him to stop. To leave. People don’t want to be friends with me.

Dave doesn’t say anything. He just digs his fork into the ugly looking mass on his tray. So, he’s going to be stubborn.

“Fine,” I say, standing up, “if you won’t move, I will.”

I stand up, grab my things, and walk away. I don’t look back, because I don’t care to see the expression on his face – not that I’d see it anyway, considering he hides behind those stupid sunglasses. I throw the rest of my lunch in the garbage on my way out of the cafeteria. I feel too sick to keep eating. When I get there, the library is quiet; everyone’s at lunch. I open a book, but can’t focus on the words. All I can think about is what just happened. I’m still angry – my mind keeps rewinding to the last time someone decided to sit with me at lunch and try and be my “friend”, in middle school. 

_“Hey, can we sit here?”_

_I look up, and there’s a girl and a boy standing in front of me. They’re both holding bagged lunches._

_“Sure,” I say, trying to contain my excitement. The girl smiles. It’s a wide, wicked kind of smile, like the kind you see on Ursula in The Little Mermaid. She has braces, and the bands on them are blue. When she sits, she flips her long blonde hair, and crosses her legs. The boy sits down next to her; the both of them are on the other side of the table._

_I decide I’m just going to hold my sandwich. The way I eat is embarrassing; it looks like a turtle. I can’t screw this up by looking like that._

_“I’m Vriska,” she introduces herself, pointing her painted nails at her chest. She then gestures to the boy, “this is Eridan.”_

_Eridan waves. He’s sitting up very straight, and his legs are crossed, too. He’s wearing a lot of little gold rings, and there’s a purple streak through his bleached hair. It’s black at the roots._

_We talk for the rest of the lunch period about everything; about how much I love movies, about their escapades playing pirates – emphasis on it being roleplaying, not pretending. They’re too old for pretending. Vriska talks fast and picks on Eridan while we talk. Eridan has an accent I can’t identify. I feel in my element. I feel like I’m actually making friends for once, like I actually belong somewhere._

_And then, it all disappeared._

_I’m looking for a book in the library, and I overhear two voices on the other side of the shelf. It’s Vriska and Eridan. I’m about to walk over and say hello – until I hear what they’re saying._

_“I can see why the principal asked us to do this,” Vriska remarks, “there’s no way anybody would actually want to be friends with him. He looks like an orc.”_

_Something in my chest tightens._

_“Yeah, if I woke up looking like him, I’d kill myself,” Eridan replies._

_I don’t hear what they say next, because I walk away. As I’m walking, I wipe my eyes, and I decide that for me, real “friends” don’t really exist. Not in this school, anyway, and definitely not in Vriska and Eridan._

_I never talk to them again._

This is high school. There’s no way the principal is bribing kids to be my friend anymore – it isn’t their business who my friends are. No matter how I look, I’m not being coddled and protected anymore. Especially without my mom around. But, that’s for the best, because I have to live in the real world. And in the real world, kids like me, kids who are different, live in isolation, because that’s how people are. From the cradle to the workplace, I’ll always be an outsider. ‘Don’t stare’, they’ll say to each other, in whispers.

God, I can’t wait for three more years – scratch that, a whole lifetime – of _this_. I put my head down on top of the open book and groan. I don’t need any more nonsense from John’s friend. Doesn’t he realize all he’s doing is making me feel terrible? Doesn’t he realize it’s all been done before?

The bell rings and I stand, packing up my things. People begin to file into the library as I exit. I look down as I walk in the hallway, trying to remember my classes. Part of me wants to pull out the sheet from my backpack with the room numbers on it, but I hesitate. I’m better off just trying to find the room, instead of stopping in the middle of the hallway and rummaging through my bag.

You see, when you’re like me, you’re always debating what will draw the least amount of attention to you. As if they aren’t already staring.

The more I walk, the more the hallways start to empty. I realize I don’t know which room I’m looking for, nor do I know anyone in my class – which wouldn’t matter anyway, since the hallways are practically desolate. I move off to the side of the hall, dropping to my knee and swinging my bag in front of me. I rummage through it, looking for my schedule. I can do this fast enough. No one’s looking.

“Hey there.”

. . . Or not. I look up as I stand, pushing my open bag onto my shoulder. There’s a guy with his side pressed against the locker next to me, leaning down to look at me. He’s much older – and taller – than I am. He’s wearing a white t-shirt, but it’s mostly covered by a leather jacket that only comes down to his mid waist. One of his hands is in his hair, which is black and slicked back. I open my mouth to say something, but he speaks first.

“You’re Kankri Vantas’ brother, right?” he asks. He has an accent – it sounds a lot like Eridan’s. It strikes me that they’re probably related.

“Yeah,” I answer, my lips pressed into a frown, “what about it?”

“Woah, hey, no need to get defensive,” his smile is sickening, and makes something in my stomach seize up. He stands up straighter and moves closer to me. I take a step back.

“Since your brother’s . . . _off limits_ , I was thinking I’d have a chance with you, but . . . now that I see you,” he makes a face of disgust, “I don’t think I’d ever want to be caught kissing _that,_ ” he gestures towards my face.

I swallow, because that hurt. There’s a crack in my voice when I reply.

“Then why are you talking to me? Fuck off.”

He keeps moving closer to me, and puts his hands on my shoulders. I try to shrug them off, but his grip tightens. My blood feels like ice.

“I thought you’d want to know,” he lowers his voice, “how _disgusting_ I find you – no, how disgusting you _are_. I feel bad for you, buddy . . . who’s ever going to fuck you when you have a face like that? You’re too defor— _different_.”

“Fuck off –“ I start, my voice deflated, trying to move backwards. I manage to force myself out of his grasp, but he keeps moving closer still. The guy opens his mouth to say something else, an expression of pity on his face, his hands reaching towards me, when I hear footsteps behind me.

“Hey, get away from him!”

My mind is racing, and suddenly there’s a body between us. I’m looking down. There are tears in my eyes.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the voice asks. I hear the sound of the person between us pushing back against the guy’s chest. I know I should recognize the voice, but I can’t process it. My head is spinning.

“Hey, rude, we were just having a conversation –“ the guy offers.

“That’s not what it sounded like. Now why don’t you stay the fuck away from my friend, huh?”

_Friend?_

“Fine, fine. I’ll see you later, Vantas,” the guy’s voice has moved from defensive back to the too friendly, sultry tone, but I hear footsteps. They slowly become quieter and quieter. Then, they’re gone.

There’s a hand on my shoulder again, and I flinch.

“Hey, you okay?”

I look up, and instead of meeting eyes, I meet a pair of sunglasses. Suddenly, I realize why I recognized the voice. It was _Dave_. Something rushes through my chest, and I swallow back the feeling of tears in my eyes. Then I feel _angry_. I shrug his hand off my shoulder.

“I’m fine,” I snap. He’s silent. My head is down; I don’t see his expression. Not that I would, anyway. My face feels hot. There’s a few moments of silence, and they feel like hours. I don’t expect to open my mouth again, but the words come out. “By the way, we’re _not_ friends.”

I push past him and walk away.


	3. Karkat: Family

They is my family, they is my family  
They might be crazy, but they is my family  
You can’t get to them unless you get through me  
You fuck with them you fuck with me  
  
And if you’re standing on the ledge  
I’ll pull you down, put you to bed  
And if you’re bleeding from the heart  
I’ll come around, and clean it up

― Mother Mother, "Family"

-

I feel like a coward for doing it, but I make a beeline for the nurse’s office after turning the corner. I tell her I’m very, very nauseous. She doesn’t seem to process what I said for a moment; she looks surprised to see my face. God, I’m so done with this shit. After it settles in, she coughs and looks away, her cheeks reddening. She takes my temperature, then gives me a small plastic cup of water and a couple of saltines on a napkin. The difference between here and middle school, though, is instead of saying, ‘you’re fine because you don’t have a fever, you can go back to class when you’re ready’, she asks –

“Would you like to go home?”

I think about the guy I ran into in the hallway, how there’s still panic in my chest. I think about having to see Dave again.

“. . . Yes,” I say.

She calls my Dad. When he arrives, she leaves the room and they have an exchange outside. Maybe, if the situation was different, I would have tried to listen, but I don’t even pay attention. I bite the skin around my fingertips, my nails already bitten down so far, they hurt when I touch them.

“Karkat, you ready?” I look up, and my Dad is looking down at me. He looks worried, and I feel a tinge of guilt.

“Yeah,” I reply, standing up. My dad puts his hand on my shoulder, which I realize is incredibly tense. I force my muscles to relax. When we walk down the hall towards the entrance, I find myself grateful that the hallways are empty. There are no eyes on me as we leave. Even if I still feel them.

The ride home is mostly silent. I think my Dad just assumes that I’m too sick to talk, or something like that. I lean my head against the window, and feel the rhythm of the car running against my cheek. The sky is grey.

“Looks like it’s going to rain,” my Dad says.

“Yeah, it does,” I murmur.

We pull into the driveway. I step out of the car into a small pile of brown, dead leaves. Once we’re inside, I immediately walk to my room and throw myself onto my bed. My Dad follows me.

“Do you need anything?” he asks from the doorway.

“No,” I reply, burying my head into my pillow. I hear the sound of the door closing, and exhale. Finally, I’m alone. I roll over, staring at the empty ceiling. I don’t even know what to think – _that_ was my first day of high school. Well, part of it. I was too weak to brave the rest of the day. God, what a coward I turned out to be.

“Fuck,” I mumble, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes until I see colorful flecks dance across the darkness. After a few seconds, when the pressure is too much, I open my eyes, wrapping my arms around myself. I try not to think about what happened, though I fail miserably. I sit there, my mind cycling through the same thoughts over and over.

And, then, I can’t help it anymore. My face crumbles as I begin to cry, hot tears streaming down my cheeks. I cry until my face hurts, until my breaths are ragged. I cry because I’m ugly. I cry because that guy was right. I cry because I’m alone. I cry because I don’t have any friends. I cry because I can’t be loved. When I can’t cry anymore, I sit, gasping, until I’m reduced to silence.

Finally, after some time, I feel like I’m starting to drift asleep. My mind wanders, and I feel my eyes closing. A heaviness begins to take over my body.

Then, the door to my room opens.

“Karkat? I heard you were ill, and I just wanted to check on you.“

My eyes open, and I groan, rolling over to face away from the door.

“Go away, Kankri,” I swallow after I speak, feeling embarrassed. My voice is hoarse from crying, and cracks halfway through the sentence.

“Are you okay? It sounds like you’ve been –“ he starts. I won’t let him say it.

“Shut up,” I snap, interrupting him, “go away.”

“I don’t want to invade your privacy,” he says, “but I want to help you.”

“You’re just going to fucking _lecture me_ ,” I retort.

“I’ll listen,” he promises, and I open my mouth, getting ready to say ‘no’. But, I pause. I think about how lonely I feel. Maybe his presence is better than nothing, even if he doesn’t understand.

“. . . Just close the door behind you.”

I hear the door close, and my bed dips as he sits down on the edge of it.

“Why don’t you sit up?” he asks, and I make sure to grunt in defiance as I push myself up. I can pretty much tell he’s gotten the hint that I’m not actually sick. I cross my arms, looking away from him.

“Happy?” I hiss.

“Very,” he replies, “now, what happened?”

My throat seizes up, like my body doesn’t want me to talk about it. I sit in silence for a few moments, and it feels like hours.

“I . . .” I start, but I can’t force it out. I squeeze my eyes shut. Kankri shifts closer to me.

“It’s hard to talk about,” he says slowly, “I understand. Take your time. Was it something at school?”

I nod.

“Was it –“ he begins, but before he can ask, I talk over him.

“John introduced me to this guy,” I say, “you know I hate . . . I _hate_. . .”

“The way he looks at you,” Kankri finishes. I nod, before I continue.

“And this new kid . . . this piece of shit . . . he tries to sit with me at lunch,” I can feel my eyes tearing up again.

“So, he wanted to be your friend?” he asks.

“No,” I snap, “he just feels bad for me. You don’t understand. He wouldn’t move, so I left,” I force myself to continue, “and then this guy in the hallway, he . . . “ I take a deep breath, “he kept telling me about how disgusting I look, how no one would ever . . .” there are hot, fat tears falling down my face again, “he kept moving closer to me, and he put his hands on my shoulders, and he wouldn’t let go, and,” I choke, burying my face in my hands. Kankri shifts closer, and wraps an arm around me. He stays quiet for a long time while I cry. It’s weird not to hear his voice for once, but comforting. It’s just his presence, his hand rubbing circles on my back.

“Do you know his name?” he asks, finally.

I shake my head, wiping my eyes.

“I think he was in your grade, though,” I murmur, my voice hoarse. Kankri doesn’t spend a lot of time at the high school. He’s in a special program where he spends most of the day at the local community college taking classes there instead. If he was at the high school full-time, though, he’d be a senior.

“What did he look like?”

I describe him. It makes me feel sick to the stomach to think about him. When I’m finished, Kankri’s hand stills on my back. It feels stiff, tense. I turn to look at him. His brow is furrowed, and he is looking at the ground.

“It’s my fault,” he murmurs.

“What?” I ask, confused.

“That’s Cronus. I always told him –“ he makes a noise of frustration, “I always regulated his actions. I had been there to coach him on ableism, he wouldn’t have –“

“Stop,” I say, “it’s not your job to do that.”

He looks down again. I lean against him.

“I’m serious.”

“Someone intervened, right? A teacher?” he asks hopefully, changing the subject, and I feel my stomach drop.

“That new kid did,” I answer, and the more I speak, the more anger boils in me, “like I’m some sort of princess that needs a knight in shining armor. Like I need his help. It makes me so fucking pissed,” I pull on my hair, “I don’t need his pity. He’ll walk around, playing the hero. ‘Oh, I saved the kid with the fucked up face’, well _fuck him_. I don’t need his help! I don’t get why he keeps finding me! Can’t he tell that I know? That I know no one wants to be my friend? That I’m too deformed for –“

“Karkat,” Kankri interrupts me, “you are _not_ deformed. You have mandibulofacial dysostosis. And that doesn’t make you someone people can’t love. Have you ever thought that maybe he just wants to be your friend?”

That only makes me angrier.

“It doesn’t work like that!” I scream at him, shrugging his hand off my shoulder. I meet his eyes. He looks hurt.

“. . . I’m sorry,” he says quietly, “but that is how it works. I love you, you know that, and that’s proof you can be loved.”

“You’re my _brother_ ,” I snap, “you’re different. You have to love me.”

“Do I? Just because we’re related, doesn’t mean I have to love you. Haven’t I always accepted you? What would make your peers any different? Even if it takes time, they will. And maybe this new person could be your friend.”

“He won’t be,” I reply.

“Well, not if you don’t let him. Why don’t you try talking to him? You’ll never know his motives if you don’t hear them from him. What you believe might be very different from what he’s thinking,” he nudges me, “give it a try.”

I try to sort out my thoughts, but my mind is racing. I’m quiet for a few moments, before I let my shoulders slump.

“. . . Okay,” I murmur.

Kankri wraps his arm around me again, pulling me closer, and I close my eyes. I feel so tired. My eyes feel dry and sting from crying. I decide, at the end of the day tomorrow, I’m going to confront Dave, and hear the truth. Whether or not I’m going to like what he says.


	4. Karkat: Tell Me the Truth

“Sometimes being a friend is enough in its own right to inspire someone on to victory.” 

― Stephen Richards

-

I stay up most of the night, not wanting the day to begin – but eventually, I drift off, and the hours pass like seconds. My alarm clock blares in my ear, forcing me awake. I get dressed and eat breakfast in silence, but it doesn’t matter; Dad’s at work already, and Kankri’s already at the community college. I focus on my breathing the whole way to school on the bus, and find myself unable to concentrate in class. I just keep _thinking_. My head keeps spinning. I see Dave once or twice during the day, but duck out of the way and ignore his presence. I’m dreading having to face him, knowing what I’m going to talk to him about. I feel less angry and more afraid. It’s easy to hate him for what I think he’s doing, but hard to hear the truth. But that’s for the end of the day. And that’s far away, isn’t it?

Not so much. Before I know it, the bell to the last class rings, and I nearly slam my head on the desk. Here goes. I walk out into the crowd in the hallway, and as I turn the corner, I see Dave closing his locker. I walk over. He doesn’t notice me at first. He has earbuds in, and as he closes the locker, his other hand is scrolling through something on his phone. He’s nodding to a beat.

“Uh,” is all I can muster, waving to catch his attention. He turns and looks at me, raising an eyebrow. He seems surprised; I don’t blame him. I did completely reject him all the times he’s tried to talk to me. He pulls out an earbud.

“Hey,” he says, “what’s up?”

“. . . I want to talk to you. In private,” I force out, feeling my face redden. The corner of his mouth twitches upward.

“Oh, _private_? Is Mr. Vantas inviting me to a secret make-out session? Is that why he said we can’t be friends? Can’t say I see him that way, but I know I’m irresist –“ he starts. God, I barely know the guy and he pisses me off even more when he opens his mouth.

“Shut the fuck up,” I interrupt him, crossing my arms, “I’m serious.”

“Okay, okay,” he replies, and I gesture for him to follow me. We end up in an empty music room. There are old music stands scattered everywhere, some with numbers spray painted on the back of them. The floor is carpeted, unlike most of the classrooms, but the blue color of the carpet has long faded to an ugly, stained grey. The white board is lined, and scattered across it are music notes and cursive handwriting. The lights are off. I close the door behind us. Dave hits the lights, and they flicker before brightening the room. It strikes me he probably wouldn’t be able to see otherwise, with those sunglasses on. There are no windows in the room.

“So, what did’ya need?” he asks.

I sigh. God, this is going to be hard to get out.

“Look. I’ve been assuming a fuckton about you,” I say, “and I guess . . . I just want the truth.”

“About . . .?” he raises an eyebrow.

“Why you sat with me. Why you intervened when Cronus was . . . yeah,” I look down, “I – I keep telling myself it’s because you feel bad for me, or feel obligated to, or because you want to look like the hero –“

“Hey,” he stops me.

“What?” I snap, pissed that he interrupted.

“You’re just wrong,” he says, shrugging. He shoves his hands in his pockets. I look up at him, expectantly. He continues.

 “I don’t feel bad for you, and I sure as hell don’t feel obligated to be around you. Hell, as nice as it sounds, I don’t wanna be your hero, either. Listen, Fiona, you can be a princess all you want, but I ain’t playing Shrek. You’re badass enough to handle yourself, you feel? Like, sure, maybe you need a lil’ wake up call, but you can break out of that castle all on your own.”

That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.

“You get what I’m saying?” he quirks an eyebrow.

“Sure,” I deadpan, before asking, “but if you’re not . . . _that_ , then what are you doing?”

“I’ve said it like twelve billion times, dude,” he laughs, “I just want to be your friend.”

“But _why_?” I demand, my voice getting louder, more desperate. I’m starting to get angry.

“. . . I can’t just want to be your friend?” he asks. I grit my teeth together. God, is he really so dense?

“Fuck no,” I reply, raising my voice even louder, “can’t you see that?”

“Woah there,” he does that thing where he raises his hands like he’s surrendering, again. I hate it. “I’m missing something, man,” he adds, “like, I’m not getting this.”

I cross my arms, because I’m about a second away from punching him in the jaw.

“Have you _seen_ my face?” I hiss.

“So, what?”

“So! No one wants to be friends with me. It just doesn’t make sense!” I yell. My blood is boiling. Why can’t he get this through his thick skull?

“Dude, calm down,” Dave asks, then pauses. He takes a deep breath. “Look. Yeah, you’re different. And that stops some people from liking you. I get it, and I get you’re angry. But I’m being honest. I just want to be your friend. I met you, and I got a good impression. Thought you were a cool guy, thought I could vibe with you. I saw you were sitting alone at lunch, and I was like, ‘Shit, why’s this dude got no company? He was cool’. So, I went and sat with you. Simple as that. And as for the fake greaser, I would’ve done that for any of my friends, dude. If he was saying that stuff to John, I’d do the same thing.”

I search his face, but I can’t see his eyes behind those idiotic sunglasses. His eyebrows are raised, though, as if to say, ‘you understand?’

“. . . You mean that,” I say, uncrossing my arms.

“Yeah,” he replies.

I look down. I don’t know how to reply. I don’t know how I feel. I take a deep breath, and suck back the urge to cry. It’s just overwhelming. The idea that someone just wants to be my friend, after seeing my face . . . it’s so foreign. It feels surreal. Up until now, only my family were the people who accepted me and cared about me despite what I looked like. And Terezi, though she’s never actually seen my face. My shoulders relax. He’s the first to break the silence.

“We cool?” he asks. I look up, and he’s offering his fist. I nod, and reciprocate the fist-bump.

“Yeah. We’re cool.” I murmur. I look down again. His sneakers are red.

“Nice,” he says, in that calm voice of his, “well, I’m gonna go, then. I have a shit-ton of homework.”

“Okay.”

His shoes leave my line of vision, and I hear the door open and close. I stand there for a few minutes, just processing what happened in that conversation. I don’t know if I can believe him, but part of me _really_ wants to. Needs to, honestly. Maybe, for the first time since I was just a kid, I have an actual, real friend. It sounds almost too good to be true . . . but for once, I let myself believe it. I let myself be happy about it. I have a friend. I have Dave.

And, you know, maybe he is looking me in the eyes behind those sunglasses. Maybe, just maybe, he isn’t like the others.

For the first time in years, I leave school smiling.


	5. Dave: A New Friend

“No friendship is an accident. ” 

― O. Henry,  _Heart of the West_

_-_

I wasn’t really expecting to make that many friends in my new town. I guess it’s because I never really had them before I moved – I mean, I had online friends, but I didn’t leave the apartment much. So, John’s . . . enthusiasm towards making me friends with all his friends was a little alarming, though I guess it was appreciated.

You see, I’ve known John online for much longer than I’ve known him in person.

John is pretty much the most normal person I know. Not that I know a lot of people, but that’s beside the point. He’s just so . . . I don’t know. He has a lot of friends, he’s an average student, because he tries his best. He has a desk in his room where he does his homework – which he actually does, even if he uses SparkNotes sometimes; something which he confessed to me once, like it was some big secret. Like he doesn’t realize literally everyone else does that. I guess he doesn’t. And sure, he’s got some weird drawings on the walls, and there are creepy harlequins all over his house, but everyone’s got to have _something_ like that going on, or else you’d be way too normal. When you walk up the stairs, there are pictures of him on the wall to the right, from when he was little to now, like the walk upstairs is a crawl through the ages of John Egbert. It’s clean in his house – like, his Dad actually _cleans_ it, when John doesn’t have it as a chore. I can’t even imagine that – chores? It’s a fucking marvel.

But, whatever.

The school is big. Well . . . not that I have anything to compare it to. I’ve never actually been to a real, in person school. We walk there on the first day, because Egbert claims that it’s ‘not that far’ and ‘a nice day outside’, even though it was _freezing_. And it’s not like I own a jacket or anything. I managed to find an old sweatshirt, though, so I wore that.

When we walk inside, John switches between happily chattering about what the school looks like, and introducing me to what seems like an endless list of friends.

He doesn’t really give me a preface for any of them, except one. Karkat Vantas. He tells me that there’s something about Karkat I won’t expect, and gets all flustered talking about it. When I ask what it is, he refuses to say, until he leans in and whispers to me, “it’s his face!”

I’m gonna be real here: I didn’t know what to expect. Like any kid’s would be, my mind was racing through millions of possibilities of what Karkat could look like. But there is one thing I could tell for sure – John isn’t _actually_ friends with this kid. If he was, he wouldn’t warn me about him in a whisper, like it was a secret. He wouldn’t refuse to say what his face looked like in his warning, like he was embarrassed. And, maybe, if they were actually friends, he wouldn’t’ve warned me at all.

When I see Karkat, sure, I’m a little surprised, but I don’t get why people freak out about seeing him, why John felt the need to warn me.

His eyes are about halfway down his face, and they are downward-slanting. The left one is significantly lower than the right one, and they bulge out a little, like his eye cavities aren’t deep enough to hold them in. He doesn’t have any eyebrows or eyelashes, and his nose is large in proportion to the rest of his face. His face looks crushed inward, and he lacks cheekbones, instead having deep fissures on the sides of his face, which give the appearance that he’s been burned. There are scars littered across his face, the most prominent moving from his upper lip to his nose.

He looks different, but I don’t see what the big deal is.

I glance at John through my peripherals while he’s talking, and notice he refuses to look at the guy. That pisses me off a little. I return my gaze to Karkat. He’s Latino, and his hair is messy; a dark brown, fluffy mass on his head that twists every which way. It kind of falls in front of his face.

The interaction is brief, but it’s enough for me to realize a difference between him and the others. And, no, I don’t mean how he _looks_. He just seems more like, I don’t know, a genuine person. Don’t get me wrong – I’m sure John’s friends are great people, but meeting them just felt _fake_. Karkat felt like a real person; especially with how he snapped at John in greeting. That was pretty great.

So, when I see him sitting alone at lunch, I make a decision. I walk past John’s packed table and make my way to the back of the cafeteria. It’s a little overwhelming, because I haven’t really eaten in a cafeteria like this before.

Things don’t go so great. It’s a little frustrating, but I remind myself that if he just doesn’t want to talk to me, he has his own right. I guess. Truth be told, I’m fairly disappointed by his reaction. I had gotten the impression he was kind of an angry and pessimistic person, but I didn’t think he’d flat out reject me. He thinks I feel bad for him, that I want to play the hero, and that’s pretty much the exact opposite of my intentions, and it kind of irks me. It feels like one big misunderstanding.

But, I decide not to bother the guy again.

After lunch is over, I’m having trouble finding the room for my next class. I kind of wander around a bit, trying to make sense of how the numbers change from hall to hall. When the people clear, I see Karkat and some other guy together at the end of the hallway. I almost ignore them, but when I see Karkat shrink backward, and the guy reach out towards him, I go running.

I don’t mean to, because I remember what he said during lunch, but it slips out – I call him my friend. I’m acting on instinct. I don’t want to be his hero, I don’t want to come rescue him. I just felt . . . I couldn’t just watch that happen.

He rejects me again and says we’re not friends, so I take that as the final warning. I don’t see him for the rest of the day. I try not to think about what I may’ve done wrong, because I don’t think things like that. But I find myself wondering all night what I could’ve done differently.

The next day, I decide not to try and talk to him again, for real this time. I see him a few times in the hallways, but he ignores me, so I do the same. I sit with John’s friends during lunch, and they’re nice, sure. And I’m finding it’s easy for me to fit in; people seem to think what I say is pretty funny – not that I was expecting anything less, of course. John keeps saying things like, “isn’t Dave cool?” and turning to me to ask, “isn’t that ironic, Dave?”

It’s fun, but I keep wanting to look at the table in the back of the room.

The rest of the day flies by, and when the last bell rings, I slip through the crowd to my locker. I put in earbuds, and close out the rest of the world while I pack up the rest of my things. As I’m finishing, though, and scrolling through the music on my phone to pick another song, I catch a hand waving at me in my peripherals. It’s Karkat.

He asks if we can meet in private, says it’s _serious,_ and I’m confused, but I agree. Part of me wonders if he’s going to tell me off again, if I’ve somehow fucked up any more than I already have.

The conversation is nothing like that. We talk about my motives – and I clarify the truth for him. It feels good to actually get across what I’ve been trying to do all along. I kind of feel bad that the guy can’t just understand that I want to be his friend. It makes me curious how many of the people here are like John, who won’t look at him, and how many people here are like fake-greaser-guy, who would probably beat the shit out of him if no one stopped them. I feel something in my chest when he yells at me that no one wants to be his friend, because that shit just isn’t true, and whoever let him believe that needs a thorough beating.

When we’re done talking, and I tell him I have to go, though, he seems to have been somewhat convinced that I want to be his friend. And, hey, that’s enough for me right now. Because I’ll prove it to him.

The next day, in biology, I’m surprised to see Karkat sitting at one of the tables in the center of the room. It hits me that they called his name for attendance on the first day, when we had all our classes, though he wasn’t there. You see, the school operates on this stupid ass A-B-C-D rotating schedule. On the first day of school, it was an X day, so we had all of our classes. But, the second day, I didn’t have biology, because it was rotated out of the schedule for that day.

Unlike most classrooms, this one doesn’t have desks; it has two rows of tables that seat two, and the outer circle of the room is populated by lab tables, which are attached to the walls. No one is sitting next to Karkat. I walk over, throw my bag onto the table, and sit next to him. He turns and looks at me. He seems surprised.

“Hey,” I say.

Before he can reply, the teacher speaks. She’s fairly average in appearance, but the meat on her arms seems to dangle too low, like it’s melting off her body with her age. Her face is wrinkly, but she’s filled in the spots and creases with makeup a few shades too dark. Her hair is fried from hair dye, and is a weird yellow-brown color that looks unnatural.

“Everyone sit next to who they’d like to be their lab partner,” she announces.

Karkat looks at me like he’s expecting me to stand up, but I just make myself comfortable in the seat, rolling my shoulders.

“Really?” Karkat asks. His voice shows he doesn’t trust me. It’s cautious, but a little hopeful.

“Really,” is all I say, giving him a reassuring smile. My teeth don’t show; I don’t smile like that. It’s the kind of smile where your lips roll together in the middle, and one side of your mouth raises. I used to practice in the mirror, because my brother told me I had to look –

I change my train of thought. My focus shifts back to Karkat.

“You ever done biology before?” I ask him.

“Yeah, we did it in middle school,” he replies, “have you _not_ done biology before?”

“. . . Not really,” I shrug, “but I’m glad one of us has. That makes things easier. I suck at science.”

I actually don’t know if I do.

“Oh, great,” he grumbles, “I’m _so_ glad you’re my lab partner.”

I laugh.

Class starts. I had taken out my notebook, but I won’t really need it. The class period is just an introduction on how to act in the lab. The slideshow is littered with stupid clip-art and comic sans. It’s beautifully ironic. Time passes slowly, but it’s fine. I chew on my pen and let my eyes shift between the slideshow and Karkat, who looks like he’s drifting off to sleep. I guess he’s heard all this before. When his eyes flutter shut, I kick his chair. He frowns at me and looks back at the slideshow.

When class ends, Karkat gets up and grabs his things, making a beeline for the door. I quickly swing my bag over my shoulder, jogging up to him and grabbing his shoulder.

“Wait for me,” I say, and he looks back at me, surprised.

“Okay,” he slows down, and we walk together in the hallway.

We talk about nothing in particular as we walk down the hallway, until the topic turns to movies. He gets so animated; the movies he’s talking about are absolute _shit_ in my book, but in all honestly, I could hear him talk about them for hours. When we reach his classroom, he stands outside with me, continuing to tell me about how much he enjoyed watching _50 First Dates_ again last night.

“Have you seen it?” he asks, and I shake my head. He tells me we have to change that, and even though I never want to see Adam Sandler’s ugly mug willingly, I agree, because it means I’ll get to hang out with Karkat.

The bell rings, and I’m late for class. Karkat apologizes, but I shake my head.

“What kind of cool kid would I be,” I tell him, “if I wasn’t late for class?”

He laughs.

“You’re not cool,” is the last thing he says to me, as he ducks into his classroom.

I find myself smiling. It threatens to spread across my face, but I don’t let it. I just savor the warm feeling in my chest as I start down the hallway towards my next class.


	6. Dave: Falling

“There is never a time or place for true love. It happens accidentally, in a heartbeat, in a single flashing, throbbing moment.” 

― Sarah Dessen,  _The Truth About Forever_

-

It’s hard to believe that it’s already been two months since the beginning of school. I’m finding that I spend more of my time with Karkat than I do with John and his friends, with a few exceptions. And, frankly, I’m cool with that. Though I didn’t doubt it before, Karkat proved to be more than just a shaken-up soda bottle of anger. I popped that shit open and took a sip of sweet friendship, and it didn’t even overflow. Hell yeah.

I’m walking to school with John – one of those exceptions I mentioned earlier. As it’s gotten much colder, I’m actually wearing a coat. It isn’t too cold to walk, though, according to Egbert. But, unlike usual, we’re walking in silence. He seems to be thinking about something, and, hey, that’s fine. He must have a test today. I fish in my pocket for my headphones, and plug them into my phone. Before I can put in my earbuds, though, John tugs on my arm.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” he asks.  

“Sure, shoot,” I quirk an eyebrow as I reply. I honestly have no idea what he’s going to say, but he seems pretty serious about it. His brow is furrowed, and his lips are drawn in, like he’s deep in thought. Then, he says it.

“Why do you hang out with Karkat so much?”

 “What do you mean?” I ask, confused.

“Well, y’know, you’re just _always_ with him, and . . .“ he trails off.

“Woah, is someone _jealous_?” I smirk at him, “I know I’m pretty damn fantastic, but there’s just not enough of me to please everyone. This dip right here might be awesome, but it spreads thin if you put it on too many chips, you know, and –“

“Oh my god, Dave, shut up. I’m not jealous, I’m just confused,” John says, a little hesitant, “I don’t get why you’d hang out with him so much. I mean, I say hi to him and stuff just to be nice, but, y’know, he’s . . .”

I stop walking.

“Are you saying I shouldn’t hang out with him because of how he looks?”

“No!” he replies immediately, waving his hands.

“Then what are you saying?” I’m getting angry, but I keep my composure by taking a deep breath. My hands are in fists.

“He’s just . . . it’s just . . .” his voice grows increasingly more frustrated.

“ _What_?”

“Okay, so it’s his face! So, what!” He yells, finally, and I grit my teeth together.

“So, you’re being a real dick right now, Egbert,” I reply.

“I’m not! I’m just telling the truth! You’re the only one who doesn’t see it!” he says, “It’s like – it’s like you’re in love with him or something!”

“What if I am?” I snap without thinking. My eyes widen behind my shades, and I feel my face heat up. _Shit._

“. . . Wait, what?” John isn’t yelling anymore. He’s just looking at me with surprise painted across his face, “Really?”

I don’t know what to say. I hadn’t really thought of it before. After all, I’m not . . . I’m not _gay_. At least, I don’t think so. I’ve questioned it before. I’ve never really dated anyone, but I’ve had the internet at my disposal, and I’ve never found myself attracted to images of ‘hot guys’, ripped dudes with spiked hair and stubble in speedos.

But, then I think of Karkat.

I think of his laugh, how he tries to hold it back sometimes, but it comes exploding out of him like fireworks, and his whole body trembles when he can’t stop, his voice gone and nothing but air escaping his mouth. I think about his oversized sweaters, about how the sleeves fall down his wrists when he talks with his hands, and how they hide everything but his fingers when his hands are at his sides. I think of the deep brown of his eyes, how I can get lost looking at them, how they brighten when he talks about something he loves. I think about how his whole face lights up when we talk about romance movies, how he won’t stop talking, and he’ll just go on and on about what he loves. Even if I don’t give a shit about the movie he’s talking about, I could listen for hours. I think of how he closes his eyes when I let him listen to the music I’m working on, quietly nodding his head to the beat.

Fuck, am I in love with him? I think I am.

“I think I might be,” I say, finally.

“Look – I, uh,” John rubs the back of his neck, “I guess I just don’t understand. I just can’t see past, y’know.”

“That’s not the point,” I reply, “it’s about liking everything about him, dude. Not ‘despite his face’ or ‘beyond his face’. He’s not ugly. He’s . . .” I pause, because I’m about to say so many words. Beautiful, perfect, lovely . . . yeah, none of those are cool. I take a deep breath. I need to keep my composure. “He’s just a great guy, okay? I thought you were more accepting than this, bro.”

“I _am_ accepting,” he says, “I mean, now that you’re _gay_ –“

“Jesus Christ, I’m not gay,” I interrupt him, “but that’s not even what we’re talking about. Look, I’m gonna be real with you, dude. Karkat’s my friend, and if you don’t treat him like an actual person and respect him for who he is, I sure as hell am not gonna respect you.”

John looks hurt by that, but I’m only telling the truth.

“We’re gonna be late,” I say, “we’d better get walking.”

He just nods. I push my earbuds into my ears, and start walking again. I glance over, and he’s walking a few steps behind. As we near the school, he grabs my shoulder. I pull out an earbud.

“I’m going to work on it,” he promises, “I’m sorry, Dave. Are we still friends?”

I wrap my arm around his shoulders. I don’t know if I believe him, but I care about him enough to trust him. He’s my best friend, no, more like _family_. And my promises aren’t loose, but I’m not going to lose him.

“Best friends, Egnerd.”

We part ways once we’re in school and he sees his other friends. I have a feeling this is going to be a weird day.

At first, after feeling shocked that I’m in love, I feel ecstatic. The feeling swells in my chest and left me breathless, and I love it. I’m in love with being in love. It’s a blissful, wonderful feeling, and I’ve never felt it before.

Then, I actually see Karkat. I find myself unable to carry a conversation with him. I ramble less, because I want to be careful with my words. My face keeps heating up, so I look away from him so he can’t see me. I say “uh” and “uhm” between sentences. I feel so fucking awkward, and god, I hate it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel acutely aware of everything – how he’s perceiving me, how I look, how I’m speaking. I feel like I’m gonna fuck up, and he won’t like me, which is outrageous, because we’ve been friends for two months now. And god, him liking me – it feels like my whole world, like my life depends on it, and it’s making me really anxious. I’m supposed to be _cool_ , and here I am, like a little schoolgirl pining after her senpai. It’s disgusting.

At the end of the day, I don’t even want to see him. I’m too afraid of embarrassing myself. I grab my things and put in my earbuds, and make a beeline for the entrance. But, of course, thanks to my luck, a hand grabs my shoulder just as I’m leaving the building. It’s Karkat. I take a deep breath.

“Come here,” he says, and drags me away from the crowd of kids leaving the building.

“What’s up?” I ask, pulling out my earbuds.

“I should be asking you that,” he snaps, and I when I look up and meet his eyes, I realize he’s angry with me. Shit.

“What do you mean?” I feel like I sound nervous, and it’s killing me. I’m not supposed to act like this. I look down.

“You’ve been avoiding me. When we talk, you barely say anything, and you don’t fucking look at me anymore! Did you finally decide to hate how I look? Do you finally fucking decide to be like everyone else? I thought you were my friend, I thought you liked me, I thought. . .” he trails off, his voice cracking, and I look up again. His head is in his hands and he’s sniffling. My heart is racing, and I scramble to find something to say _fast –_ I really fucked up this time, and now he’s crying, shit, shit, shit –

“Hey, hey, hey, don’t cry,” I say frantically and pull his hands away from his face. He resists at first, but then gives in. He sucks in a deep breath, like he’s a dam holding back the floodwaters. “I’m not being . . . I’m not acting weird because I don’t like you. It’s because I’m,” my chest tightens because, shit, I have to say it, “it’s because I’m kindofinlovewithyou,” it all comes out in one conjoined string, and I close my eyes and cringe. When I open them, he’s looking at me with an expression of shock on his face.

“You’re _what_?”


	7. Karkat: First Kiss

“Love is like the wind, you can't see it but you can feel it.” 

― Nicholas Sparks,  _A Walk to Remember_

_-_

Having a friend is actually one of the most amazing things on the planet. I was . . . I had forgotten what it felt like, I guess. Dave and I spend a lot of our time together – well, all the time we have in school, anyway. Sometimes we hang out after school, too – we walk to the park nearby or just hang out in the cafeteria after school is out. As the janitors make their way through the halls, and kids play basketball in the gym, Dave blasts his mixes from the little speaker on his phone and taps his fingers on the table, nodding his head to the beat. Sometimes, I prop up my phone on the napkin dispenser and we watch videos, or, on occasion, a movie. Though I always complain that we need to see my movies on a bigger screen to do them justice. He laughs at that. We stay there until the janitors tell us we need to leave.

Today, though, Dave’s been acting . . . different. He’s not talking much, which is _really_ weird. Usually, he could go on for hours with some stupid metaphor referring to whatever the hell we’re trying to talk about. But, today, he’s giving one word answers and just nodding to what I say. He also keeps looking at the ground, which really fucking pisses me off.

It’s like, all of a sudden, he’s refusing to look me in the eyes, like everyone else. I really, really had thought he was different from the others. After all, we just spent two months together non-stop, basically. My mind is racing all day. Did he suddenly decide to hate me? Does he feel embarrassed by me? Has he been faking this whole time? I tell myself he can’t be, because who would devote that much time to an act? But, I can’t shake the feeling that something is probably very, very wrong. And it’s probably because of me. Maybe he really is just like everyone else.

Caught up in my anger and confusion, I decide to confront him about it. If he’s suddenly decided to hate me, he’s going to have to say it to my face. At the end of the school day, I spot him rushing away from his locker, and I follow him, walking fast. When I catch up, I grab him by the shoulder and drag him away from the flow of kids coming from the building. My mind is racing, and anger is boiling in my veins.

I make it known I’m angry with him with my voice, but as we exchange words, and I begin to spill my thoughts as to why he’s acting so strange, my anger starts to melt away into sadness. I feel like I’m losing someone I care about, but mostly I feel betrayed. I press my hands over my eyes as I begin to cry, embarrassed that I’m being so emotional. Fuck him for making me feel like this. I hope he’s happy.

He’s not.

“Hey, hey, hey, don’t cry,” he says, his voice frantic. He tries to pull my hands away from my face, and I resist at first, but I eventually give in. The skin on his hands is surprisingly rough. I take in a deep breath, holding back the tears that threaten to spill over. My brow is so tightly furrowed it hurts.

“I’m not being . . . I’m not acting weird because I don’t like you. It’s because I’m,” he says, pausing, and I feel my heart lift a little in my chest. I force the feeling down. I prepare myself for the worst, whatever that could even be. Then, he says it –

“It’s because I’m kindofinlovewithyou.”

I’m pretty sure my jaw hits the ground. I don’t think I heard him right.

“You’re _what_?”

He rubs the back of his neck, shuffling his feet.

“C’mon, man, don’t make me say it again,” he mumbles. So, I did hear him right, then? He’s in . . . in _love_ with me? My surprise melts into skepticism.

“You’re fucking with me, right?” I ask, crossing my arms.

“What?” he freezes, sounding almost offended, “Dude, no, why would I lie about something like that?”

I’m angry, suddenly. It hits me fast and hard. I’m angry because he _has_ to be lying, and that’s just cruel. Yeah, he convinced me he wanted to be my friend, but that’s different from being in love with me. Wanting to hang out with someone is different from wanting to . . . well, be in a relationship with them. I think of what Cronus said, and my heart aches. I grit my teeth together and look at the ground, uncrossing my arms and letting them fall to my sides, my hands in fists. My nails are digging into my palms. It hurts. I stay silent because I don’t know what to say.

“. . . You really don’t believe me, do you?” Dave asks, after a few moments, and I look up at him. I can’t see his eyes behind his shades, but his brows are furrowed. He takes a step closer to me, so our chests are nearly touching. I want to step back, just out of anger, but I resist the urge. He leans down – he’s so fucking tall – so our faces are only inches apart. I didn’t even realize he had raised his hand until his fingers are in my hair. His touch is gentle, and the movement isn’t sensual; he’s just gently stroking the strands by my ear. The other hand comes to join, except his thumb is on my cheek, gently moving across the fissures in my skin.

“What are you doing,” my voice is shaking.

“I’m proving a point,” he says, and his voice is so quiet. He leans in. Our lips press together, and my eyes widen. His lips are soft. It only lasts a second, and then he pulls away. It feels weird. It feels loving, and it’s my first kiss, but my heart doesn’t flutter. My stomach isn’t full of butterflies. I don’t feel smitten. This doesn’t feel like the romance movies I watch.

“Do you understand?” he asks, taking a step back again. I don’t know what to say.

“I just . . . I can’t . . .” I struggle to find words. I don’t see how he could love me. He sighs.

“I know it’s hard for you to get,” he says, “but I’m telling the truth, dude.”

“You’re actually in love with me,” it’s more of a deadpan than a question, because there’s just something I’m missing here. Something about _me_.

“Uh, yeah,” he replies, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“I . . .” I start, but don’t know what I’m going to say.

“Do you,” he’s looking down, “do you, uh.”

“Love you back?” I finish without thinking.

“Yeah.”

I don’t know what to say. When I think Dave, I think best friend. I think of us listening to music and watching videos together. I think of us laughing over something stupid. I think of him elbowing me in the hallway when I pick on him. I don’t think of going on dates with him. I don’t think of kissing him. When I see him, I don’t feel nervous. I don’t feel like my heart is beating faster, or like there’s a frog in my throat. I don’t feel intoxicated by him. I don’t feel in love. I just . . . I don’t see him that way.

I swallow.

“I don’t . . . I don’t think so,” I say, finally, “I don’t really . . . see you like that.”

He nods and kicks the pavement.

“Okay. Yeah. Sure.”

“I mean –“ I start, because I feel bad, but he cuts me off.

“Nah, dude, it’s fine, you don’t have to explain. If you don’t, uh, feel that way, I get it.”

I feel a tinge of guilt. Dave was pretty much the first person ever who genuinely wanted to be my friend, and certainly the first person to ever be in love with me – something I still can’t entirely grasp. But I just can’t force it. If romance movies have taught me anything, it’s that you have to be really, truly in love. And then there’ll be a happily ever after. And, yeah, I get it, I’m no Bridget Jones. But . . . I want the moment to be right. I want to feel all the feelings I’m supposed to feel. I want to fall deeply in love, hard and fast.

But, that doesn’t mean I don’t want Dave as my best friend.

“This won’t change anything, right?” I ask.

“What? No, dude, we’re still bros,” he gives me that smile, the one where one side of his mouth tips upward and his lips smooth out against each other. The only type of smile Dave ever gives me. But it feels a little sad this time.

“Good,” is all I can say. Silence follows.

“Well, uh. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he mumbles.

“Yeah, okay,” I reply.

He turns, walking away from the school. I stare at his back. I wonder if our friendship will be different after this. I hope not. But there’s a different air between us, now, like there’s a little tear in our bond. A tear I created. I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. I can’t blame myself, as much as I want to. Telling him no to start with is better than faking it, right? It’s okay, because it’ll heal. It always heals. We’re best friends. And that kind of relationship doesn’t just disappear after something like this.

I pull out my phone, dialing my home number. I ask my dad to come pick me up. I sit down on the edge of the sidewalk, and put my face in my hands. God, everything always has to be so fucking hard. At least, I think to myself, I’m used to it. Some people . . . well, they don’t even stand a chance.


	8. Karkat: Deal or No Deal?

“They say when you meet the love of your life, time stops, and that’s true.”

― Daniel Wallace, _Big Fish_

__-_ _

When your best friend confesses his love to you, things change. I guess I’m a dumbass for not realizing that earlier, but it’s not like I could control the situation. It’s been a few weeks, now, and Dave and I still have fun together, but . . . there’s just something different about it. An awkward feeling that sits in my chest and weighs over the two of us. It’s weird knowing you’re hanging out with someone who’s in love with you. Sometimes when we’re watching a video or movie together, I can feel him looking at me from behind those stupid sunglasses. When I glance over, he looks away and rubs his neck.

But, at the end of the day, we still spend almost all our time together, no matter how he feels about me. We still hang out after school in the cafeteria, watching videos and listening to music until we can’t anymore.

Except, today, we aren’t going to hang out in the cafeteria like we usually do. Dave is coming over my house for the first time. I don’t know why we didn’t do it earlier – I guess it makes our friendship feel so real, and I wasn’t ready for that. Not that I didn’t want a real friend. It was more that I didn’t want him to prove himself wrong, and I didn’t want my family to be exposed to the kind of rejection I’m used to. I don’t want their pity. Not anymore. But Dave has pretty much proven to me that he’s an actual, genuine friend. Though, he might want to be more than that. I just try not to think about it that way. Anyway, getting to the point – he’s coming over my house, and I’m kind of nervous about it. But mostly excited.

After I get home from school, I feel a kind of anxiety I’ve never felt before. Anticipation, I guess. I find myself tapping my foot on the floor as I look out the kitchen window, waiting for a car to pull up to our house. Kankri keeps trying to reassure me, and it’s irritating as fuck. He sits behind me, leaning on the counter, sipping a cup of god knows what.

“I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” he says to me, over and over, and I increasingly feel in inclined to punch him in the face. And, punch myself in the face, for that matter, for feeling like a dog waiting for someone to come to the door. It’s pathetic.

The doorbell rings, and I _jump_. I hear Kankri choke on his drink behind me.

“It’s for you,” he remarks, and I roll my eyes at him, before walking over to the door.

I take a deep breath and open the door. Dave, who was glancing around the yard, turns and waves before pulling out his earbuds and shoving them into his pockets. He glances inside.

“You gonna invite me in or what? I’m like a vampire y’know, you need to invite me in for me to –“ he starts, and I cut him off before he can say anything stupid.

“Just get in here,” I reply. He smirks and steps inside. He slips off his sneakers, which he doesn’t lace up all the way, like a fucking idiot. He’s going to trip some day and I’m going to laugh at him.

My dad, who was sitting in the other room reading a paper, walks over, rolling up the paper and shoving it under his arm. I can tell it makes Dave a little uncomfortable that my dad was waiting for him to get here, but he’ll have to deal with it. My family is pretty involved when I let them be, and this is a full-length invitation into my life at school. Kankri stands in the hall behind the foyer, leaning against the wall, mug in hand. 

My dad looks Dave up and down, before offering a hand.

“You must be Dave,” he says.

“Yes, sir,” Dave replies, and I blink in surprise as he continues, “it’s a pleasure, Mr. Vantas.”

There’s tension in the room – something that doesn’t usually accompany Dave. Even after this whole love-confessing thing, there’s always a certain looseness that he carries with him. It’s a comforting thing, something that seems embedded in his attitude, and something that seems to have slipped away in this moment.

Before I can keep thinking about it, Kankri steps forward. He nods in Dave’s direction, but doesn’t offer his hand. He doesn’t like shaking people’s hands.

“I’m Karkat’s brother,” he says, “Kankri. I’m so glad to be finally meeting you. Karkat speaks of you so often, and I –“ I glare at him, and he stops, raising his eyebrows, and cuts his little spiel short, “I’m very excited you’ve come to visit.”

There’s a short but very awkward silence following Kankri’s words, and it feels unusual. Especially with Kankri and Dave in the room; the two people I know who talk the most.

My dad puts his hand on my shoulder before breaking the silence.

“Well, we won’t keep bothering you two,” he says, clearing his throat, “go on up to your room. We’ll be down here.”

“Thanks,” I reply, looking over at Dave and nodding in the direction of the stairs. My dad pulls the paper out from under his arm, sitting back down in the other room. Kankri glances over for a second, but follows him. I lead Dave upstairs. The walls are covered in photos of Kankri and I, and I try not to look at them as we walk – I hate them, but Dad insists that they stay. Mom had hung them. We head over to my room, which has a hand-written sign on the door that reads: “STAY OUT”. When we reach it, I hear Dave scoff behind me.

“Shut up,” I throw open the door, motioning for him to go inside. I close it behind us.

“Holding the door open for me,” Dave puts the back of his hand to his forehead, “I’m swooning. What a gentleman.”

He throws himself onto my bed. He says something, but I can’t hear it because he’s got his face shoved into my covers.

“I can’t hear you, dumbass,” I sit down next to him, prodding his shoulder. He turns his head to face me.

“I said, ‘this is nice’,” he mumbles.

“Oh, I guess,” I shrug, “you should see Kankri’s room. It’s a lot cleaner,” I look around the room for a moment. It isn’t terrible, but it’s pretty messy. Every surface is covered in knick-knacks and books, plus there’s clothes strewn across my desk chair and headboard. Movie posters cover the walls, some ripped at the edges from being hung and rehung so many times.

There’s silence for a moment, but it’s comfortable. It feels nice to have Dave in my room, finally. I fall back, laying down next to Dave on the bed, and look at the ceiling. Dave is facing me, but his breaths are getting more and more even, and I think his eyes are closed. I can’t tell behind those damn shades.

“Hey!” I push his shoulder and he makes a grumbling sound, angling his head towards me. I cross my arms. Suddenly, I’m feeling a little more annoyed about the sunglasses. He had such good manners with my Dad and everything, yeah, but isn’t it rule number one not to wear sunglasses and shit like that in someone’s house?

“Why don’t you take those off,” despite using the word ‘why’, my words were less of a question and more of a demand. Dave raises an eyebrow.

“I’ll pass, thanks,” he says dismissively, rolling over onto his back.

“So, you never fucking take them off? Do you sleep in them, too?” I’m picking fun more than anything, now, but I’m still pissed about them, in all honesty.

“Gotta get that SPF, dude,” Dave replies, “you don’t see the sun in your dreams? Sounds like you’ve got some serious eye-burn in your future.”

I sigh, sitting up. The room goes quiet for a second, and I feel like my chest is boiling. I’ve only seen half of Dave’s face. Just half of my best friend’s face! Half! What the hell could he be hiding? His ego?

“. . . I want you to take them off,” I say, suddenly, though I hadn’t planned to. My hands are coiling into fists and I take a deep breath.

“No deal, Howie.”

“Why not?” I demand, turning to him. He raises his head towards me, and seeing my anger, pulls himself up to sit crisscross.

“I just don’t want to,” he shrugs, but rubs his shoulder. He’s getting uncomfortable, but I’m getting too angry to take it into account. I stand up, my back facing him.

“It’s not fair,” I spit bitterly, “I’ve only seen half of your face. What kind of friend does that make me?”

Dave is silent. I turn around. I want to yell, but the next thing I say comes out as a hiss.

“Not all of us get to hide our insecurities, Strider. I don’t know what’s behind those shades, but whatever you’re doing, remember it’s me looking, not the rest of the fucking world.” 

I take a deep breath, realizing how harsh my words were. I’m about to open my mouth, but Dave speaks first. He uncrosses his legs.

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing he says, and he’s looking up at me through those shades. His voice is steady but tense, “I didn’t mean . . . I don’t want to be a dick.”

“Look, I – “ I start, but he cuts me off.

“C’mere,” he instructs, motioning towards the bed. I crawl on, moving towards him, and sit in front of him. His legs stretch out on either side of me and his feet dangle off the bed. He reaches up and puts his hands on both sides of his glasses, taking a deep breath. I suddenly realize how much this is. How hard it is. My hands twitch. I want to stop him, suddenly, but the intimacy of the moment is leaving me frozen. He pulls off the shades, and his eyes are closed for a moment. His eyelashes are blonde. There are even more freckles on his face, as if they materialized from underneath the glasses. He blinks, looking up at me, and it feels like time stops. My eyes feel watery.

His eyes are an odd color, somewhere between brown and red. His irises are blotchy, not circular, like they’re bleeding out into his scleras. Little specks of the reddish color are scattered across the white like someone had flicked a paintbrush inside of his eyes. But that’s not what made my eyes well up; it’s the look on his face. It’s a sort of vulnerable look, one of insecurity. His face comes together and instead of an easy-going, carefree person I see what I see in the mirror. Someone who hurts when he sees his own face.

My face feels hot.

“Hey, woah, what the hell,” Dave lurches forward, gently brushing my cheeks with his fingers. I’m crying. Why am I crying?

“I’m not that ugly, am I?” he jokes with an awkward laugh, smiling. The smile is worried and bittersweet. I can see his emotions so clearly. I suddenly realize what I’ve been missing. People in romance movies don’t fall in love over nothing; they fall in love over the grand gestures. They fall in love when someone runs through the airport to stop their flight, when someone cancels their wedding to run away, when someone stands outside their house in the rain singing a beautiful song in a broken voice.

I suddenly understand, because I feel it. There are tears streaming down my face and my heart is beating faster. Dave is looking directly into my eyes for the first time, even though I can see it hurts.

I reach up, sliding my fingers across his chin and onto his cheek. His brow furrows. I lean forward, pulling him into a kiss. I feel him tense in surprise, but he melts into me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders. It’s only a couple seconds, but when I pull away, my breath is gone. Dave gives a quiet laugh, smiling at me.

“So, uh,” he pulls back a little, rubbing his neck, “can I rethink the deal, Mr. Mandel? What does the banker have to say?”

I lean into his shoulder, groaning.

“I hate you,” I mumble.

“Obviously not,” Dave retorts, pulling back to usher my head back up so he can look me in the eyes again. I roll my eyes at him, crossing my arms.

Before either of us can say anything else, he pulls me in for another kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was originally planned to have sixteen chapters, but I'm closing it off here at chapter eight, because I think this is a spot where I can safely stop. I wrote this when I was in a very different place, and now I'd like to focus on other things. Thank you for your continued support of this fic. It means the world to me.
> 
> Much love, 
> 
> mintboy


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